Cosa Nostra
by Your Pyroclastic Flow
Summary: Slight AU. Also slightly silly. Vincent Valentine formed his own Mafia! How will it go down with the town? And what will he do when one of its most beloved members is kidnapped? VinCid
1. Part One: Our Thing

**Author's Notes:** Good morning! I'm not a hardcore Final Fantasy fan, but I _have_ fallen in love with Final Fantasy 7, thanks to a very special friend. Well, I guess two very special friends. Anyway, I have not played the original game. I'm so sorry, I sinned. However, I know a freakin' lot about the world, terms, and characters.You may see a little out-of-character-ness in this, and if so, please excuse me, but I would also say that this story is in a slightly alternate universe. If I were to squeeze it into the FF7 timeline, I'd place it _before Advent Children_. Why? 'Cuz Vinnie V. don't got a phone!

...It's okay if I call him that, right?

**Rated:** T for Teen, due to mild violence and Cid (language and tobacco use)

**Warnings:** Slight AU, implied VinCid (meaning light shounen-ai/yaoi/boys' love/whatever), and silly nicknames. Not a crossover, but there are references to _The Dark Tower_ that can easily be ignored.

**Disclaimer:** Final Fantasy VII and all places, terms, characters, and logos belong to Square Enix. _The Dark Tower_ series and "Roland's gun" belong to Stephen King. Heinz ketchup belongs to... Uh, Mr. Heinz. The Cosa Nostra headquarters, the gun upgrades, and Vincent's desk belong to me (Okay, so it's his, but I let him borrow it!).

_This is dedicated to and was written for Naraku's Ji-chan. Happy belated fifteenth birthday! _

Being an already finished story, Part Two will be distributed on Wednesday, and Part Three will be given out on Friday. It's a little weird, but I hope y'all enjoy it anyway!

**Cosa Nostra**

_Part One: Our Thing_

1

They didn't know how he managed it. All they knew was that he did. Whether it was a good thing or a bad thing, who could tell at this point? Most assumed it would be more of an in-between-thing, and either stay that way, or evolve with the potential of good and bad.

They weren't quite sure what to call it. A club? A gang? A cult? A religion? Somehow, it had the feeling of all those things, plus some. Two things were certain: First, it was organized, extremely organized. Second, Vincent Valentine organized it.

Of course, that made Vincent the leader. He started it. It was his idea. That made it his club/gang/cult/religion by default. He did a pretty damn good job of it, too. Did so much as order a base headquarters to be constructed—a four story building that housed members when they needed to be there or had nowhere else to go, complete with a meeting hall, a training hall, a kitchen, and various other useful rooms. He put the organization in action, and he gave it a name. He called it Cosa Nostra, and he said it meant "our thing." Since no one could pinpoint exactly what kind of organization it was, to call it "Our Thing" seemed fitting.

So fitting, in fact, that Cid Highwind began addressing its leader as "Don Vincenzo."

2

It caught on fast. Pretty soon, all the initial members got to referring to Vincent as Don Vincenzo, and as the name became more widespread both in and out of the Cosa Nostra headquarters, they shortened it to simply "The Don."

The Don, reserved and reclusive as he may at first appear to be, proved himself a worthy if not entirely admirable leader in those first few weeks running the organization. Rather than taking over or replacing AVALANCHE, he made it so Cosa Nostra was more of a branch—separate from, but still connected to the former group. Most of the members in AVALANCHE were also a part of Cosa Nostra, but Cosa Nostra accepted members that AVALANCHE would never dare hire, and for good reason. All Cosa Nostra followers were dangerous, despite their rank and skill level. Good or bad, it was a dangerous organization.

And it was custom-made to be that way. The Don hand-picked every member, sometimes going to them, sometimes letting them come to him. He took help. He listened to opinions. He tested individuals and allowed them to test him back, although it wasn't required for initiation. Each initiation was different. Every new member got their own personalized mission to complete. The Don believed having a standard initiation test for everybody to go through would be too easy. He didn't accept followers on a whim. He got to know them inside-out, watching and judging them closely for days or weeks at a time before coming up with a decent challenge that would try all their most notable strengths and weaknesses. In this stage, one was called a "TBE," To Be Explained. Succeeding in the mission made you a rookie, and you were stuck into a crew and given the rank of "Foot Soldier" until you proved yourself to be more useful than that. If you failed your mission, you were cast aside and ignored. For security, a record of every member joined and every person shunned was kept in Don Vincenzo's office in the Cosa Nostra building, but The Don seldom used those records. That was Cid's job.

Cid Highwind, of all people, had one of the highest positions in Cosa Nostra. He did all kinds of things. Secretary work, fixings here and there, gave advice, helped The Don take care of business. Nobody, not even the beloved Don, had any idea what to officially call him. So they improvised. Many names and titles came out of it, but only one—probably the most embarrassing of them all—stuck; Cid Highwind had such a high rank in Cosa Nostra that he was referred to as The Donnette. Direct underdog of The Don? No, more like The Don's feminine counterpart. In spite of how very little feminism ran through Cid's blood, most everyone in the group liked to think of him as Don Vincenzo's wife. He did that much, had that much equal power, and was that valuable in case of loss. Cid, along with many other traits and functions, was probably the most protected member of Cosa Nostra.

3

Rain. He smelled it before hearing it come down. The windows were open, so the stench came in strong with the breeze. It would have smelled nicer if this wasn't a city, and such a rotten city at that. Smog, fog, general air pollution. It was like the freshness of spring mixed with gasoline, broken hearts, and a hideously beautiful melody no one else could hear but him alone.

Vincent Valentine had set up a desk in the corner of his office, which also served as his bedroom. It sat opposite the window and not quite pushed against the wall. A monster of a desk, like the monster who worked behind it. Generous surface space. Big drawers, little drawers, side drawers. Wide, long, and deep drawers. If he wanted to, he could pack his clothes and his weaponry inside and move somewhere else, with nothing to bring but that monster of a desk carrying all he needed, and himself.

He took pains to keep it neat. Whatever went on top got put in its own special place within eyes' view. Nothing got away with being buried or hidden. Papers stacked according to category, with paperweights if necessary. Pens, highlighters, and pencils in their own corner where they'd be easy to reach. Staplers, paper clips, and staples in their own drawer. Sometimes Vincent stored items for other people in his desk, and he always made sure to keep a list of what was being stored, for who, and where it could be found within.

He enjoyed working on that desk. Whether it be paperwork, reading reports, or writing letters, that desk was his favorite place to do it. The room was quiet and the surface was flat and solid, sturdy and dependable. He liked the sound of his pen tapping on the wood as he wrote. He also liked how, if something needed to be typed, there was plenty of room for him to cast aside his papers and set up his laptop in front of him. Easily accessible. But there was another reason he favored this desk above all others AVALANCHE could supply him with.

Cid build it for him in his spare time.

4

"Hey, Vinnie, is it okay if I come in?" Among other privileges, Cid was the only person allowed to address Vincent as such. The Don didn't bother hiding his favoritism, either, so everyone knew it.

"Yes," Vincent answered quickly, as he usually did when he wasn't too busy.

Cid came in carrying a relatively big and heavy-looking box, which explained why he didn't knock and also why he kicked open the door after turning the knob. He set the box in a spare hunk of surface space on Vincent's desk, ever thankful The Don was such a neat freak.

"This is the weapon upgrade you've been askin' for," Cid explained. Vincent looked up from whatever work he had been doing once Cid opened the box. "These are for the Soldiers," Cid continued, holding up a sleek black double-barreled pistol. "I call 'em Heinz 57 'cuz they came in a variety of colors, but they're really just a newer version of the Glacier 26." He returned it to the box and pulled out a bigger gun, of which the barrel was streaked with two red lines on each side. "This is the Hawk 2002, for the Captains. It's got more fire power, better speed control, holds more ammo, and reduces the recoil to a higher degree than the 2001 models." The Don didn't say a word, only watched as Cid returned the Hawk 2002 to the box and took out an even bulkier, heavier, _older_-looking gun. An ancient revolver with a sandalwood grip. It appeared fairly worn and well-used, well-taken care of for its age. Cid grinned almost sheepishly as Vincent took the gun apart with his eyes. "I know you're perfectly happy with your Cerberus and all, but I thought you might like this as a sort of collector's item—"

"Where did you get it?" Vincent asked. His voice was always low, but Cid was pretty sure it dropped an octave nonetheless. Vincent's eyes were locked on the revolver, but Cid couldn't read what they said. And he was usually pretty good at guessing Vincent's emotions, too.

"Well, I, uh..." Still holding the revolver in one hand, Cid's other hand traveled to the back of his head. After a moment of contemplation, he shrugged, placed the gun on the desk in front of Vincent, and rested his hands on his hips. "Antique shop."

Vincent made no visible reaction to this news, as usual, but Cid was beginning to doubt himself all the same, for he feared he knew what question would come next.

"How much did it cost?"

Oooh, yeah. Like a kick to the groin. Cid's expectations were well-met. That hand of his went back to its place behind his head.

"Hey, Vinnie, you really don't hafta know. It's paid for, it's here, don't worry 'bout it."

Vincent dropped his pen and took up the revolver with the sandalwood grip instead, turning it over in his "human" hand, and once more taking it apart with his eyes. Finally, he stopped turning it and simply held it, bringing out his clawed hand for support, because it really was a heavy gun. He stared at Cid as though taking _him_ apart, and said, ever so calmly, "Yeah. It's paid for and it's here. So tell me how much you paid for it."

Cid bit his lower lip and looked around the room, from the murky dark red paint that covered the walls to the decorative lances, swords, and guns that filled up the space on the walls, to the bookshelf sitting against the wall on the other side of the room. Despite that he stared at every(_wall_)thing _but_ Vincent, he could see those eerie orange-red (_red-hot_) eyes penetrating holes in his chest and his neck. His neck felt particularly vulnerable and seemed to throb under the pressure of Vincent's stare. At last, he sighed in defeat and gazed down at the floor.

"Twenty thousand gil," he mumbled.

"Cry your pardon, spear-thrower?" asked Vincent. It was a bit of an inside joke between them, although the idea of Vincent Valentine gaining a sense of humor like that scared the living shit out of Cid. And to top that off, it was an inside joke very much related to the big revolver.

Cid lifted his head and stared Vincent squarely in the eyes. Red versus blue, who will win? He spoke up. "Twenty _thousand_ gil, Vinnie. Roland Deschain's gun cost me an even twenty thousand gil, and that was after a good hour of hagglin'."

Vincent didn't blink or look away or anything, merely asked, "How much would it have cost you if you didn't haggle?"

Cid didn't hesitate this time. He lowered his face so that their eyes met on an even level. "Three _hundred_ thousand. That's a three with five zeros after it in case you didn't know."

Vincent shifted the gun into his right hand, grasped it tightly, and aimed it at Cid's head. "Is it loaded?"

Cid didn't so much as flinch. "Doubtful, but ya got two ways of findin' out."

5

There came a gunshot that made everyone, not just Cloud Strife who was closest to Vincent's office door, jump. Barret stopped in mid-sentence in his lecture on life to Marlene. Yuffie dropped her end of the box containing the new equipment for the training hall she was helping Tifa carry, causing it to fall on Tifa's feet. Tifa yelped out in pain and cried for Cloud to get it off her. He did so readily. None of them dared peek into Vincent's room to see what happened, as no one wanted to risk getting shot in case he was royally pissed off. Nobody wanted to go near The Don when he was pissed off. Not even The Donnette.

6

But The Donnette actually didn't mind so much, because he knew pissed off was the last thing Don Vincenzo was feeling right now. That gunshot had been one of his happier moments, no doubt.

Cid stood stalk-still with his hands on the desk. The hair on one side of his head stuck up unnaturally, as a result of the bullet whizzing by and nearly grazing his scalp. It missed him by far too small a margin for comfort, but he remained collected. He nodded like he was agreeing to something that made perfect sense.

"Yep," he said. "That's some firepower for an antique model." He glanced over his shoulder to check out the damage Vincent inflicted upon the wall. A good-sized hole right above the bookshelf, maybe two or three inches in diameter. It was adorned all around with cracks. An old picture of a house in the middle of the woods had fallen on top of the bookshelf, glass broken and frame splintered. God be damned if Vincent hadn't shot the goddamn nail the picture had rested on right out of the wall. A closer inspection later on revealed that nail had actually been pushed farther back _into_ the wall (he then supposed God must be damned after all); Vincent explained with the slightest twinge of embarrassment that he had been aiming for the pirate mug on top of the bookshelf that sat _below_ the picture. His aim was way off (most likely due to being unfamiliar with Roland's gun, as it came to be known), but Cid was glad for that; he liked that mug, gave it to Vincent himself awhile back.

He returned his gaze to The Don and sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "So whadduya think? Like it?"

"I like it very much," Vincent said, admiring the gun for one last moment before opening the nearest drawer on his left and storing it away. "Thanks, Cid."

"You're welcome," Cid replied, deciding he made the right choice after all, and picked the box of spiffy new guns up again. "I know how much you like your _Dark Tower_ stuff, so I figured you'd appreciate a 'real' gunslinger's weapon. Anyway, I'll go distribute these to the troops. You continue on with whatever you were doin'."

"I will." Vincent watched Cid go to the door, watched him shift the box to one arm and a knee so he could turn the knob. "Don't trip on the stairs."

"I won't!" Cid called back as he exited the room, closing the door behind him.

Vincent stared at his hands on the desk, flesh and metal, withdrew the gun from its drawer, and turned it over, admiring it for a second time. A small smile crossed his lips. "You are too good to me, Cid Highwind."

**END**

**End notes:** And thus, the end of Part One. You probably noticed Vincent was most out-of-character here (he _smiled_! z'ohmygod he's sick!). Logically, he had to be molded to take the title of "Don." Although for what this is, I believe he's the most in character I can make him. He talks a little more than I guess he normally would, but hey, whatever. I wrote this two or three weeks ago and didn't get _Dirge of Cerberus_ until a couple _days_ ago. There's no Lucrecia-angsting here. No dwelling in the past. Like I said, it's implied VinCid and AU. Leave The Don alone.


	2. Part Two: Taken Hostage

**Author's Notes:** Good morning once again! (And this time, I'm serious, it's 1:23 AM.) This is the second installment of a story consisting of three. Here, we learn some routines of Cosa Nostra, introduce quite a few of my own original characters (don't worry, they're all very minor and none of them are Mary Sues - none of them are _women_), and the conflict arises. It's a good deal longer than the first part, but it's much more exciting, I think. The reason I'm putting it up this early is 'cuz my sister's coming down to visit and she's likely to stay overnight and hog the computer all the while she's here, so I wanna do it while I have the chance. Expect the resolution by Friday! Oh, and if you remember, I said last time that this takes place before the events of _Advent Children_. Reminding you so the bit of joking around doesn't befuddle.

**Disclaimer:** Final Fantasy VII belongs to Square Enix 'cuz they're special, the Hip Hog Saloon is a reference to Jak II, which belongs to Naughty Dog, the Umbra Company (including Red, Green, and Derek Goodman) belongs to me, as do Doug, Hank, and Jim of Cosa Nostra.

**Cosa Nostra**

_Part Two: Taken Hostage_

Cid was too good to everybody, it seemed. The new weaponry went over well with the Cosa Nostra troops. AVALANCHE had a variety of weapons, ships, and fighters, but Cosa Nostra was made up chiefly of gunslingers. Some men took to other means of destruction on the side, but for the most part, Cosa Nostra dealt in guns.

Cid preferred spears, lances, and computers himself, but he knew how dedicated Vincent was to his guns, and so he didn't argue. He learned to shoot. He admitted to liking it a little bit. But he continued to use his spears above all else. And it was okay. The Don understood. The Don made him an exception, a very special exception, but he didn't know why.

Bullshit. He did know why. He knew why better than everyone else, so why lie?

Well, because he wasn't quite sure he liked Vincent's reasoning. He _was_ a married man, after all. Made his vows to Shera and everything. To break those vows because he was an exception to a not exactly set-in-stone rule...

He smacked himself across the face. Ridiculous. He didn't know why Vincent favored him so much and that was that. It probably had to do with how useful he made himself, giving gifts and upgrades and playing Don Vincenzo's secretary—hello, sorry, he's in a meeting.

He smacked himself a second time—going the opposite way—for good measure, and returned to tinkering with his ship. Something popped in the radiator, and—

"Hey." A male voice. Deep and guttural. Casual.

Cid turned around, looked the guy up and down. "Hey."

The man was big. Tall and muscular. Looked like he dipped his head in a bowl of red war paint and painted black lightning bolts all over his face afterward. He was dressed for business in a two-piece black suit with white dress shirt and colorful blue-and-purple-striped tie. His hands, perfectly white compared to his bald red head, were folded in front of him, prim, proper, and _ready_ for business.

His yellow eyes locked onto Cid. "You work here?"

Cid didn't know for sure what to make of the guy. Best not to say too much. He stood straight, pushing all self-consciousness concerning the big oil stain on the front of his shirt aside. "In my spare time, yeah. What can I do for you?"

The red-headed man cleared his throat and put his hands behind him, puffing out his chest. "I hail from the Umbra Company. I am looking for a man named Cid Highwind. Do you know where I can find him?"

Cid's eyes widened and he stepped back on reflex. This guy was looking for _him_? Of all the people out there, he couldn't be looking for Cloud or Tifa or Barret or Vincent but _him_? Cid Highwind? When there were many more prominent members of AVALANCHE—

That's it. Cosa Nostra. This red-headed guy probably didn't want anything to do with AVALANCHE...

At last, he shook himself out of his thinking and said, "Maybe I do. Why? Whadduya want with him?"

"Mr. Highwind, I'll explain everything on the way. It's very important that we leave now." The man stepped forward, reaching an arm as though to take him by the collar and drag him away. No chance in Hell he would allow it.

He reached into the ship for one of the guns Vincent taught him to use (alas, he had no spears handy in the workshop), and held it out defensively. One vital rule in Cosa Nostra was to always keep your gun loaded, and carry a few back-ups in case of emergencies.

"If you knew who I was all along, why play like ya didn't? Tell me who the fuck you are and what you want, and _maybe_ I'll—"

"Mr. Highwind, I'm afraid you have no option." The other hand came out of hiding from behind the man's back, and it held a gun much more threatening than Cid's. Before Cid had a chance to react, he was shot in the neck with a tranquilizing dart.

It seemed Cid, for the most heavily protected member of Cosa Nostra, wasn't protected enough.

2

Word of Cid's disappearance didn't get around until later that night, around eight o' clock, when the Cosa Nostra troops gathered into the meeting hall to discuss their missions for the night. No one actually knew something was wrong. Cid didn't make it to the meeting, which was weird, but not entirely unusual. His wife didn't much like it when he spent all day with his buddies and failed to return home at the promised time, so it was unanimously assumed that he had gone home early to be with Shera.

The meeting hall didn't have a fancy name or memorial plaque set on the wall beside its doors. It was quite simply the meeting hall, located on the ground floor of the Cosa Nostra building, to the rear. Vast spacing, room for a thousand, and set up like a church, with two rows of pews on either side, a red-carpeted aisle in between, and a stage up front, podium, chairs, and all.

Walls painted a dusty blue-white color. No windows. Four entrances that also served as exits. The floors were a dark hardwood, and people outside the building could always tell when Cosa Nostra held a meeting, because they heard the echoes of boots tapping and clacking on the floors as members took their seats. The pews were cushioned so especially long meetings weren't a pain in the butt, and were periwinkle blue to give the room more color, but keep the tone calm at the same time.

Of course, that red carpet running down the aisle between the two rows brought more than enough color to the room. It was The Don's own personalized touch, set there where everyone had to walk on it at least once, to remind these fellows that while comfort surrounds them in their home—for Cosa Nostra was as much their home as the homes they returned to when the meetings were over—blood continues to circulate in their bodies, and blood will be spilled if anyone messes with—or betrays—the Family.

Men, and a few scattered women, filed through the four doors and took their seats, their footfalls and chattering bouncing off the walls and vibrating in the air. No one had assigned seating arrangements—this ain't no school gymnasium, yo—but some of them did have their favorite spots, and they scrambled all over the place trying to get to those favorite spots before someone else took them. By 8:15, all were seated, but still chattering, and still no one noticed that something was wrong.

Yuffie Kisaragi took the podium. Everyone referred to her as The Don's voicebox. He wasn't a public speaking sort of guy.

"Helloooo, troops!" Yuffie greeted the hall cheerfully, waving and smiling.

"Helloooo, Yuffie!" the troops bellowed back in the same cheerful tone. All part of routine.

Cloud, Vincent, and Barret sat in chairs on stage behind Yuffie. If they had anything to add, they could either take the podium or whisper to Yuffie at any time. Also part of the routine.

"First, we'd like to thank everyone who donated," Yuffie said, getting down to business. "We have our gun upgrades now, and I'm sure we can all agree that they're pretty sweet." The troops murmured their approval. "Cid's not here right now, but next time you see him, give him a great big thank-you! Donations aren't limited to gun upgrades, either, as you all know. We use them for all sorts of stuff to make Cosa Nostra better! Every little bit helps! If you want to donate, say hi to Tifa, and she'll take care of it for you!"

Like school bulletins, this was something everyone had heard before, and would continue to hear until they died. Another part of the routine, in other words.

Yuffie shifted through some papers for other announcements. "Tonight, everybody gets a chance to practice with their new guns in the training hall. Targets have already been set up and if you find yourself having trouble getting adjusted, don't hesitate to ask a Captain for help! All Captains have been trained beforehand to use these guns, and—"

In the bottom left corner of the room, opposite the stage and to Yuffie's right, the doors burst open. Inward came Shera Highwind, the technician who prevented Cid from accomplishing his dream and saved his life by doing so; his wife. She walked timidly toward the stage via the red carpet, looking scared and embarrassed to be doing this. She had no place here. She was no member of Cosa Nostra. Couldn't shoot to save her own life.

On stage, the Captains and The Don watched her come toward them and waited for her to speak. Such was the rule: Don't waste your breath asking intruders what they want. Let them speak first.

Shera did so; it was a rule Cid told her about if she ever needed to interrupt a meeting for something. "Have any of you seen Cid?"

Yuffie glanced over her shoulder at her seated companions. Cloud looked to Vincent, unsure of what to say. Vincent made an impatient twirling gesture with his hand to Yuffie. _Go on. Tell her if you've seen Cid or not._

Yuffie turned back to Shera. "He was here this morning, but he's not here now. Why? Is he... Missing?"

There were a few gasps and whispers among the troops, speculating the possibility. Cloud shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Barret leaned forward and waited for Shera to say something. Vincent made no visible reaction whatsoever. Shera nodded. "I'm... I'm afraid he is. He hasn't returned home and he hasn't called to tell me where he is, or... He won't _answer_ his phone when I call him. And if he's not here, then..." She trailed off.

Vincent stood up. The room quieted at once. He walked toward the podium, waving Yuffie away. She stepped aside. Shera eyed him warily.

He said to the crowd, "Does anyone know where Cid Highwind could have been found within the last hour?" Silence. What he had expected. He continued. "Has anyone spoken to him within the last _two_ hours?"

Someone raised his hand. Doug Etheridge, one of the newer recruits, but a fine marksman nonetheless. Several hundred pairs of eyes focused on him. He shrunk under the pressure, but forced himself to keep his eyes on The Don. "I spoke to him around two hours ago," he explained, voice wavering from one pitch to a higher one and back down again. "I-in the garage. One of the airships had a problem with its radiator, and he was trying to fix it. We talked about the Chocobo races for a little while, and then I left. He mentioned stopping by the bar when he was done."

"Which bar?" Vincent asked.

"I-I don't know," Etheridge answered. "The Seh-Seventh Heaven Bar, I guess. Th-that's where he usually goes. And after that, he said he'd go home."

Vincent dropped his gaze to Shera. "But he never came home." Not a matter of question, but fact. Shera nodded to confirm that fact. Vincent raised his eyes to the crowd. "Our brother Etheridge will leave us now to search the Seventh Heaven Bar for Cid Highwind. If no Cid Highwind is to be found, he will report here and gather volunteers to search within the city. It is likely Cid could have gotten drunk and passed out, but it is also likely he could have been confronted—and possibly taken by—an enemy. We will be on our guard and hope for his safe return." To Shera, "Thank you for notifying us, Shera." To Etheridge, "Leave now. Take what you will. Report your findings promptly." Etheridge nodded and scrambled out of his pew, tripped over the red carpet, got to his feet, and ran out.

To those behind him, Vincent said, "Take half the troops into the training hall and keep the rest here. If there is trouble, I want everyone informed and prepared. After half an hour, exchange groups." The Captains nodded. They each had butterflies fluttering in their stomachs.

An adventure!

3

Cid opened his eyes forty-five minutes after being tranquilized. It hadn't been a huge dose, just enough to drag him down to wherever he was, tie him up, gag him, and lock him in this far-too-bright white room. Across town, Cosa Nostra had half an hour to go before being summoned for their nightly meeting. He blinked a few times, urging the drowsiness to go away, and turned his head to find Red Head Man's green-headed twin brother staring down at him.

He started. Green Head Man placed a hand on his stomach to settle him. "Cool your jets, man. You wanna fall off and crack your head open?" Cid shook his head. "Then don't move. You're on thin ice."

Well, actually, he was on a thin platform, but who cared for details? He would have asked _why_ he was on such thin ice, but alas, someone's dirty rag (he prayed that taste was dirt and nothing more) had been stuffed in his mouth, and his arms had been tied. Besides, he was pretty sure Green Head Man would explain everything in good time. And if not Green Head Man, then someone else. These people owed him an explanation.

As predicted, Green granted it. "You, Cid Highwind, are here because my boss wants you here." _No kidding_, Cid thought. _What for?_ Green began pacing around the platform. "My boss is a very prominent man in this city, although you may not know it. _He_ knows, however, that you come from two very prominent groups: AVALANCHE, and the fairly recent Cosa Nostra. You're probably wondering which of these groups you're representing today." _No, not really, but go on and tell me anyway, why don'tcha? _Green stopped pacing at Cid's feet. "Today, you represent Cosa Nostra," he said. "Why? Because my boss—and thus, the rest of us loyal Umbra employees—has a bit of a problem with Cosa Nostra. See, our company deals with a variety of products out on the market. You probably know some of them. We _know_ you know at least one of them, because—"

_Oh shit_.

Cid groaned into the rag stuffed in his mouth. Green stopped in mid-sentence and removed it so he could speak. "Excuse me?"

"This is about the gun, isn't it?"

4

Doug Etheridge exited the Hip Hog Saloon with a sigh, shoulders slumped and dragging his feet. He paused on the sidewalk, waiting for the other two guys to join him. "Well," he said once Hank and Jim caught up, "this is the last bar. We better call The Don and tell him Cid Highwind's nowhere to be found."

"Shame," Hank said, shaking his head.

"Yeah," Doug agreed. "He was a nice guy. I hope nothing bad happened to him." He pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

"No," Hank said. "I mean, shame you can't call The Don to tell him the news."

Doug looked up at him, surprised. "What? Why not?"

"He doesn't have a phone."

"_What?_"

Jim chuckled and decided to contribute. "He doesn't tell everybody to report back to the base after a mission for no good reason, y'know!"

Doug glanced from Hank to Jim, Jim to Hank, that shocked expression never leaving his face. "What kind of guy organizes an underground band of gunslingers and sends them on missions to rescue the kidnapped and shit like that all the time, but doesn't own a goddamn _phone?_"

Hank snickered and placed a hand on Doug's shoulder. "The kinda guy who don't like to talk on the phone, that's what."

Still laughing (at Doug's face more than anything else), Hank and Jim led him down the street, back to their leader, who owned plenty of expensive guns, a big, cozy building for his troops, a supply of nifty red capes, and all the horror novels he could dream for, but didn't have a single phone.

5

"Yes... Yeah... I know. It's terrible. So then where...? ... Uh, well... Sure. I'll tell him." Cloud hung up his phone and sighed. "Vincent isn't going to like this."

"Talking to yourself, Cloud?" Tifa asked, walking toward him with a mug of tea in her hands and smiling.

Cloud looked at her with only a mild hint of embarrassment. "No," he lied. "I just got off the phone with Barret."

"Yeah, and?" Tifa handed the tea to Cloud. He took it, but didn't drink it. Nor did he plan to. Now was no time to be sitting around drinking tea.

"He and the guys he brought with him didn't find a trace of Cid. They searched all the hangouts he goes to and some others, asked around the whole city, but nobody knows where he is."

Tifa hmphed. "And you think _Vincent_ isn't going to like this? What about Shera? Cid's _wife_? She's about ready to break down and _cry_!"

Cloud sighed again and stared into the mug of murky green tea Tifa gave him. Boy, did he feel _awful_ about this whole thing. He felt bad for Shera. He felt bad for everyone, really, himself included. Cid had been one of his best friends, and well-loved by everybody in AVALANCHE as well as Cosa Nostra. So where could he be? Why couldn't they have kept a better eye on him?

He realized Tifa was still standing there, staring at him, waiting for a response. "Well," he said, "I better go tell Vincent the bad news. He'll come up with something." He handed the mug back to Tifa and dashed down the hall, to Don Vincenzo's office. Tifa watched him go, unable to keep the hurt hidden from her face. Cloud didn't so much as sip his tea. She had the uncanny feeling he was avoiding her.

But why?

6

Hey, knock on wood, people.

"Come in," Vincent said.

Cloud did so. He also closed the door behind him and ventured over to Vincent's monster of a desk. To find him reading, of all things. Reading when he could be polishing guns or checking up on the search parties or calling people to see what progress they made. Oh, but wait, he didn't own a phone. It was up to the Captains to make all the phone calls around here. Well, he could at _least_ supervise those in the training hall (as everyone else had been divided into those aforementioned search parties), but he put Yuffie in charge of that. Still, couldn't he find something more useful to do than _read_?

Oh, the irony kills.

"Uh, Vincent?" Cloud began. Unlike some of the others, he only _occasionally_ addressed Vincent as "Don Vincenzo." "Barret called to report his findings."

Vincent turned the page in his book. While doing thus, he motioned for Cloud to go on.

Cloud took a deep breath and let it out with his next words: "And there were none. Nobody's found any trace of Cid anywhere." Vincent still didn't look away from his book. "So what do you propose we do now that the city's been searched all over?"

"Search again," replied Vincent. "Send a few parties into the outskirts of the city and search again. We will not rest until Cid has been found."

_Looks like you're already resting_, Cloud thought.

Vincent lifted his head and made eye contact with him as though having read his mind. "Do you understand?" Cloud gave him an odd look that plainly said, _Of course I understand, you silly; just because I'm blonde doesn't mean I'm dumb, although _you_ may be another story._ Vincent shut the book and tossed it onto the desk, standing up. He asked again, elaborating this time, "Do you understand, Cloud? People don't disappear on a whim. Unless they're dead. And I don't believe Cid Highwind to be dead. We will turn the earth if we have to, but we will find him."

Those red eyes of Vincent Valentine's were so intense right now, Cloud wished he would go back to reading.

"What," Cloud murmured, and realized that if he wanted to be heard over those intense red eyes, he would need to speak louder. "What do you think happened to him?"

Vincent settled back into his chair. "I believe Cid to have been kidnapped."

"Kidnapped?"

"Yes. Kidnapped by an enemy. Kidnapped—" He reached into a drawer and placed the object on the desk so Cloud could see it. "—by the marketers of this gun."

Cloud wasn't a gun expert, but that thing on the desk looked like an ancient piece of junk. "And you came by this conclusion how?" As a second thought, he added, "And when?"

"Just now," Vincent said. "Just now I put the two together. And you, Cloud, are going to lead in finding this company." He tapped the gun's stock with one long golden claw. Cloud had to bend down to read the faint print: _Product distributed by the Umbra Company_. When he straightened up, he found Vincent regarding him closely, but not as intensely as before, thank goodness. "I didn't pay much attention to that engravement earlier, but considering what Cid went through to get me that gun, it doesn't surprise me that such a thing as this should happen. Those people are the epitome of greed."

"What do they want with him?" Cloud asked.

Vincent leaned forward, lowering his voice to an even deeper octave. "That sinful businessman Derek Goodman wants little more than..."

7

"Payment." Derek Goodman spun around in his chair to face them. "I want my payment, young man."

"Them" included Cid Highwind, un-gagged, but now tied to a chair opposite President Goodman, Green Head Man, and Red Head Man. Seeing the two together revealed a few minor differences between them: While both their heads were solidly colored and had black lightning bolts painted over those solid colors in the exact same places, Green had a smaller, shorter, easier-going build than the big, tall, stern Red. But in the end they had more similarities than differences, as both liked it rough and tough—whatever "it" was. Cid wouldn't be surprised to find Red and Green were gay together.

Derek Goodman, on the other hand, was a perfectly normal-looking guy. Cid guessed his age to be around sixty. He had salt-and-pepper sprinkled hair, jowls that could rival a bulldog's, and small black eyes set far back into his skull. He seemed to squint a lot. Or maybe that was how he always looked.

Another thing Cid noticed was that all three of these guys wore the same style of suit—same colors, same blue-and-purple-striped ties, everything. Like it was a school uniform or something. It made Cid happy Vincent didn't give everybody uniforms when he started Cosa Nostra. Can we say "bland"? Good boy!

"I already paid you," Cid said in his defense. "Twenty thousand gil, as negotiated." He held his chin high, his face set as though to say, _And I ain't movin'_.

Unfortunately, President Goodman could be just as stubborn, if not more. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk (which wasn't half the size of Vincent's). "Twenty thousand gil doesn't pay for a three hundred thousand gil gun. Do you know why that gun was priced at three hundred thousand gil to begin with?"

Cid swallowed hard, keeping his eyes trained on Goodman's. It took a lot of will power. "It's an antique. One-of-a-kind. _Last_ of its kind. And prob'ly thousands of years old."

"That's right." Goodman tapped his fingers together. "That's exactly right. So, bearing that in mind, _why_ did you convince the shopkeeper—who will remain unnamed for security reasons—to let you pay a mere twenty thousand gil for _my_ three hundred thousand gil gun?"

"'Cuz I couldn't afford the damn thing otherwise."

Red and Green stepped back from Cid, staring at him as though he had just said something not only outright nasty, but also blasphemous. That same look was amplified on President Goodman's face. "Do you realize," he said softly, like he would to a child who had done something so terribly wrong he could not be yelled at, "how _sacred_ that gun is among collectors? How _valuable_ it is in the hunting community? Any dedicated firearm enthusiast would spend his life's retirement money to own a gun like that, and here you, a lowly _pilot_, have dared pay a petty twenty thousand gil for it and refuse to pay no more? Don't you know how _sought_ after that gun has been since it came into my hands? It's a miracle I would sell it on the market to begin with! And you, _you_ dare—"

"Uh, yeah," Cid interrupted. "Accourse I know 'bout all that. That's why I bought it for the price I did, so I could give it to _my_ boss."

"_Your_ boss?" Goodman scowled at him. "And what would _your_ boss want with a gun as valuable as that?"

"Aw, easy, guy," Cid warned him. "He's Vincent Valentine. I'd be more surprised if he _didn't_ want the fuckin' gun. Now, any'a you happen to have any smokes? I'd be more'n happy to make a deal with ya if I could get a cig."

**END**

**End notes:** And thus, the end of Part Two! What kind of deal is Cid gonna make with these guys? Aren't you dying with the suspense?


	3. Part Three: Saving Cid's Ass

**Author's Notes:** As promised, here's the last installment! Took longer to get out than I thought it would, no thanks to my sister staying overnight again and stealing the computer from me while I was in the middle of editing. Just so y'know, I don't know how big Rufus Shinra's balls are, nor do I want to. It was just something cute I figured Cid might say. There are women in this chapter. They don't stay long. My language (and Jim's, and Cid's) got kind of colorful, but colors are pretty, so it shouldn't be a problem. And it's not as fluffy as you might want it to be, but I think it's cute, and that's all that matters. I'll be writing more VinCid stories later on, and they're bound to be more romantic, I promise. But for my first one, I don't think this is too bad.

Oh! And don't mind Doug. He's not trying to steal Vincent from Cid. He just hero-worships him. Vincent _is_ The Don.

**Disclaimer:** Final Fantasy VII belongs to Square Enix, _The Dark Tower_ belongs to Stephen King, the plumber thing was a silly subtle reference to Mario, which belongs to Shigeru Miyamoto, who rocks, and Nintendo, Cosa Nostra, Doug, Jim, Hank, the Umbra Company and its employees and president all belong to me (unfortunately for that last bit - I don't want President Goodman! I'll take Doug anyday though...).

**Cosa Nostra**

_Part Three: Saving Cid's Ass_

1

Doug, Jim, and Hank exited the meeting hall onto the street. They were being led by Cloud Strife and Barret Wallace, setting out on a very, very important mission. It could be deadly. It could be fatal. It could end up killing them. But they would do it. Because they were men. Real men. Strong men. Tough men. Men from Cosa Nostra. And Cosa Nostra men weren't pussies. Unless they were women. Then they kind of had no choice.

"On the road again," Doug mumbled, once more dragging his feet and slumping his shoulders.

Jim clapped him on the back. "Aw, c'mon, man, it's not that bad. Fresh air and a chance to kick some butt! What more do ya need?"

"A little more logic," Doug grumbled. "It's bad enough The Don doesn't have a phone, but you'd think with the Captains all having phones, he wouldn't have to send us out for a _phone book_!"

Hank threw his hands in the air. _Who the hell cares?_ "Guy don't need a phone book if he ain't got a phone."

"Yeah, but—" Doug started.

Hank held up a hand up to shush him. "Dougie, stop questioning The Don. It's doing you more bad than good. Just go with the flow for once, okay? As they say in that book The Don loves so much, let ka do its work."

"Ka is like destiny, right?" Jim asked.

"Sounds like kaka to me," Doug said. "Total bullshit." Hank and Jim laughed at that, and after a moment, Doug joined in.

Hank said, "They say _that_ in the book, too!"

And so they agreed to let ka do its work.

2

No man remained in the training hall by ten o' clock. The group led by Cloud and Barret—the ones out looking for the Umbra Company's address and telephone number—found precisely what they needed to, thanks to a local shopkeeper, and reported to Yuffie immediately, via cell phone. Yuffie passed the information along to Don Vincenzo, and Don Vincenzo sent his search parties around the city once more, except this time they would be known as the reinforcements and not the search parties. Keep an eye out on the town in case anything goes wrong, Wilson.

Cloud and Barret's group was to wait by the fountain for Vincent. When he arrived, away they would go. Cid was as good as rescued.

Vincent arrived at the fountain by 10:12.

"Where's Tifa?" Cloud asked right away.

"Base," Vincent said.

"Doing what?"

Vincent shrugged; he obviously didn't care what Tifa did so long as she wasn't in the way.

"Where's Yuffie?" Cloud asked next.

"Base," Vincent said again.

"Doing what?"

This time Vincent opened his mouth to answer, but before he could say anything, there came a crash from behind as Tifa Lockhart kicked over the box Doug Etheridge had been leaning on. Doug fell to the ground elbow-first; he forced back a yelp. Yuffie stepped over him, hands on her hips, and glared angrily at Vincent. Tifa did the same.

"Sexist!" Yuffie accused. "Send all the men out, but leave the women in the kitchen! We care about Cid, too, ya know!"

"Sexist?" mused Vincent. "True, there aren't as many woman as there are men in Cosa Nostra, but of how many there are, I sent all of them out—except for the two of you."

"Yeah, so how come?" Tifa asked. "Hmm? Why leave us out when we're just as good as those other women, if not better?"

Vincent seemed a little surprised, or maybe he was just disgusted by the way these women were talking to him. He pointed a finger at Cloud. "Ask him. He requested I purposely leave you at the base." Cloud doubled back as Yuffie and Tifa turned to him. Tifa especially.

"What's the big idea, Cloud?" she demanded.

Cloud thought quickly. "I didn't want you getting hurt in case it got serious."

Wrong answer.

Yuffie ignited almost at once. "What're you talkin' about? We can fight just as well as these guys!" She pointed to Hank and Jim, hitting Doug in the face, who was just getting back to his feet, and knocking him over. "How do you think you managed to defeat Sephiroth? _Alone?_"

"Uh... Um..." Cloud backed up into Barret, who smiled wanly at him before facing the enraged rhinos. Er, women.

"Now, look, Yuffie, Tifa," he said. "If Vincent didn't have a problem lettin' ya stay at the base, there must be a good reason for you to be there." He nodded and pointed to Vincent, taking the blame off of Cloud. Cloud gave him a thankful nod and straightened himself up.

The rhinos rounded on Vincent again.

"Well?" Tifa asked.

Vincent remained stoic as a stone. "Someone needs to keep watch on the headquarters and Marlene."

Tifa and Yuffie exchanged horrified glances.

"That's right!" Yuffie exclaimed. "No one else is there but Shera!"

"We better get back!" Tifa agreed. "Anyone could attack the building and hurt Marlene!"

They dashed off down the street.

Cloud looked from Barret to Vincent and smiled. "Thanks for covering me."

"No problem," Barret said.

Doug Etheridge finally got to his feet, grabbed Vincent's clawed hand, and kissed it. Multiple times. "I love you, man!" He was either weeping, or on the verge of tears. Vincent watched him with mild interest before shaking him off. He turned to Cloud and Barret.

"Shall we be going?"

"Going we shall be," Cloud replied, and pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. "The Umbra Company. Twelve Appleseed Drive. Got any idea where that is?"

"Right across from my grandmother's," Hank said. To Jim, he added, "_She_ came up with the street name." Jim nodded solemnly.

"Alright," said Cloud. "Let's mosey."

Good thing Cid wasn't around to hear that.

3

The Umbra Company was in fact located across the street from the Appleseed Company. Hank's grandmother owned a pie-making business, and her house was quaintly attached to the factory. Truth be told, Cloud found the Appleseed Company, with its chimneys billowing heavy smoke and its tall towers and simmering furnaces, far more intimidating than the Umbra Company, which appeared small, puny, and vulnerable in comparison, as it was just a mediocre office building squished between two bigger ones. Neither, however, rivaled the wrath Tifa would inflict upon him later.

"So," Barret speculated, studying the building and scratching his chin, "you think Cid's in there somewhere, huh, Vincent?"

"I'm fairly certain," Vincent replied. Doug stood beside him, had stayed fairly close to him since he got rid of Tifa and Yuffie, and now he mimicked Barret.

"What would these people want with Cid?" he asked.

Vincent stared at him as though seeing him for the first time, and side-stepped a few paces. "That is to be kept between me and Cid."

Cloud turned to face them. "And me."

"And Cloud," Vincent agreed.

Cloud returned his gaze to the building. "We should be ready in case of attack. If they really do have Cid, they won't be happy to see us."

"Sooo... Why don't we tell 'em we're plumbers or somethin'?" Jim asked.

Barret raised an eyebrow at him, then pointed to Cloud. "Does he look like a plumber to you?"

"No, but—"

Barret pointed to Vincent. "Does _he_ look like somebody who's ready to fix a leak under a sink?"

"Maybe by blowing it up, but—"

"Answer the question."

"No."

Barret pointed to himself. "Do _I_ look like the type of guy to go into people's houses and mess with their toilets?"

"Sort of..."

Barret whacked Jim upside the head. "We're not tellin' 'em we're plumbers! Use yo' head, boy! We're goin' to march in there and ask for Cid, and if they refuse to tell us where he is, we'll shoot 'em!"

Cloud tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. "But... What if they honestly don't have Cid or know where he is?"

Barret shrugged and cocked a thumb toward Vincent. "I'll leave that for him to figure out. This was his idea, after all."

"Thank you," Vincent said, with a hint of sarcasm. "All three of you."

"Wh-what about me?" Doug Etheridge asked eagerly. "I helped a lot tonight!" He missed the sarcasm by a mile.

"I'll give you your thanks later," Vincent told him. To the others, he said, "Onward. Let's not dawdle any longer."

"Right." Cloud put his game face on and turned to the building once again. He and Barret each grabbed a handle and pulled.

The doors opened.

4

"I'm very sorry," said Amelia Cage, who didn't sound sorry at all as she continued to file her nails and procrastinate on the job, "but that's private information I'm not authorized to give out."

"If you have sex with me, will you become authorized?" Jim offered. Hank whacked him upside the head.

Cage gave him a disgusted look. "No."

Vincent bopped Jim on top of the head with Cerberus and then pointed it at the computer on Secretary Cage's desk. "If I shoot your computer, will you tell us?"

Cage wrinkled her nose as though that offer was more repulsive than the last. "Hell no," she said. "Don't you dare—"

But Vincent shot it anyway. Smoke and the smell of roasted wires rose into the air. He hit the monitor and not the actual computer, but he didn't care, and it was all the same to Amelia Cage, with her dyed auburn hair drawn into a tight bun, her lips painted pink and her eyes bespeckled with smart, trim, black-framed glasses she didn't need, but wore to look smart. She gaped first at the ruined monitor, and then at Vincent.

"You—! I'll call security!"

Vincent pretended not to hear. "If I shoot _you_, will you tell us where to find Cid Highwind?

"Over my dead body!" She reached for the phone. Vincent shot it before her hand could get to it, three bullets from three barrels, piercing through the receiver and rendering the whole thing useless.

"Alas," he said, "I need you alive if you are to talk. But I know plenty of places to shoot you without killing you."

She gulped and fell back in her chair wordlessly. By now Barret had his gun arm ready, and everyone else had their guns drawn and aimed at the secretary. However, Vincent still ran the show, and no one would fire unless he told them to.

"Cid Highwind," Cage said, her voice shaky, gaze stuck on the barrels of Cerberus. "They took him to Cell Number 492, on the third sub-floor."

"Sub-floor," Vincent repeated slowly.

Doug was quick to tell him, "That means it's underground, below the ground floor," and was quick to receive a smack upside the head (with the clawed hand, no doubt) in return.

"I know what it means. How do we get there?"

Cage trembled visibly now. When she spoke, her voice squeaked, like she could barely contain a scream. "T-take the elevator on the left," she instructed, pointing in the direction they were to go. "It'll give you options to go to the sub-floors, but it'll ask for a password. The password is 4928763."

"4928763," Cloud echoed. "Okay, I got it."

"Let's go, then." Barret headed for the elevator. Hank, Jim, and Cloud followed while Vincent and Doug lingered.

Assuming they were done with her, Cage returned to filing her nails. Without any explanation or warning, Vincent shot the file out of her hands. It landed on the floor, broken into two pieces and almost completely blackened. Cage screamed this time, took one look at him holding the gun, and dived under her desk, crying. "Don't hurt me! Please! Whatever you do, don't hurt me!"

Satisfied, Vincent joined the others at the elevator. Doug followed. "That was some pretty badass aiming, sir!" he said. "Like Annie Oakley! You could prob'ly shoot the cigarette from someone's mouth without even hurtin' 'em!"

"Shall I use you as the test subject?" asked Vincent.

Doug flushed. "N-no thanks. I don't smoke."

"No, but Cid does," Cloud said as the elevator doors opened. "You can use him."

They boarded and let Cloud fill in the criteria. Each man took his own spot and didn't say a word as the elevator got moving. Upward.

"Hey now," Doug broke the silence right away. "We're not s'posed to be going _up_!"

Vincent sighed heavily. "Cloud, did it ask for a password when you punched in Sub-Floor Three?"

"Yeah..."

"And you typed in exactly what she told you?"

"Yeah..."

"She didn't give us the password."

"No?"

"She used us to call security."

The men stared at him, and just as Barret was about to cuss that bitch out, the doors opened again. Waiting for them outside on the third floor were two men in black suits, each with blue-and-purple-striped ties and armed. One man's head was painted completely red, and the other's green. Cid's new friends.

The party in the elevator returned this greeting by pointing their guns back at Red and Green.

"Welcome to the Umbra Company," Red said. "We hope you will enjoy your stay."

"We hope you enjoy seein' the world in a whole new color!" Barret replied, and exited the elevator. Immediately he was bombarded with the sound of locking guns. More security guards. These men wore masks so their faces couldn't be seen at all, but the suits remained constant.

Vincent stood beside Barret, one hand holding Cerberus toward Mr. Green, the other—the clawed hand—hidden somewhere in his cape. He seemed oblivious to the many red laser dots covering his body. "Cid Highwind," he said to Mr. Red. "I want him in exchange for this." His clawed hand came into view, holding a very ancient-looking revolver, big and bulky, with a sandalwood grip. The gun President Derek Goodman priced at three hundred thousand gil. Red and Green gasped in chorus.

"Hold your fire!" Red barked to the security guards. "Do not harm this man and _do not_ let that gun out of your sight!"

Green added, to Vincent, "Give us the gun and we'll take you to Cid Highwind."

Vincent declined. "Cid first, gun second."

Green glanced to Red, who nodded his approval. "Alright," Green said, facing Vincent again. "Follow me." He motioned to the others still in the elevator. Red started down the hall, Green ushered the group along like they were a band of tourists. _And here we see the security guards engaging in their annual game of laser tag! Grab a sniper and don't hesitate to join in! The more corpses on the ground by mid-night, the better!_ Oh, the guards held their fire, sure, but they didn't let the antique revolver in Vincent's claws out of their sights.

It appeared guards all over the place got the message, because even when Red and Green led the Cosa Nostra troop into a different room, red dots covered the party from head to toe. Not even Cloud's hair would escape if Red and Green ordered the guards to fire.

They marched down a different hallway to a different elevator and packed in rather tightly; with an additional two hefty men, that made for eight guys stuffed into a single, smaller-than-average elevator. Green tapped in their destination and the proper password despite the cramped conditions, and within a few moments, they were brought down to Sub-Floor Three, a great place to be if you were a prisoner.

Vincent kicked Doug out first. "Look for Cid and stop touching me." Doug said nothing in return, but got to his feet and looked for Cid as instructed. Red followed him out and took him by the arm.

"That way," he said, pointing to the right with his firearm. "Cell Number 492."

Jim, Hank, Cloud, Vincent, and Barret hopped out one-by-one, following Red and Doug. Green hung back at the rear.

"Holy shit-fuck, Batman!" Jim said in awe as they passed down the line of jail cells on either side. "Got enough prisoners or what?"

"Most of them are temporary hostages," Red explained. "Like your Cid Highwind."

"Temporary hostage..." Cloud pondered. "For what?"

"He didn't pay off his dues!" Green called from behind. "Bastard tried to get away with just twenty thousand gil!"

"For _that?_" Jim pointed to the old-fashioned revolver Vincent held. "That don't look worth _twenty_ gil!"

"Hush," Vincent warned. "It's the last of its kind."

"And it can still fire pretty damn good, too!" A voice they were all familiar with, coming from just up ahead. "You should'a seen him fire it earlier! Blew a hole in the wall bigger'n Rufus Shinra's balls!"

Cid's cell was void of everything except for him, and he... Well, he looked pretty void of everything, too. The same question sprouted in everyone's (save for Red and Green, who already knew) minds, but Vincent was the one to ask it.

"Cid, where are your clothes?"

A blush rose to Cid's face, but he made no effort to hide himself. Cloud was pretty sure he could see a tint of pink in Vincent's face, too. Not that he would comment on it. Everybody knew Cid was The Don's favorite; they dubbed him The Donnette, after all.

"Uh, well, see," Cid began. "They sorta wanted me to finish payin' off the three hundred thousand gil for that gun, but all I had on me was a couple hundred, so we played poker and the winner got to decide the final price to pay." He paused, looking at them and bracing himself for their reactions to this next: "Strip poker." Jim, Hank, Doug, and Barret burst out laughing. Cloud and Vincent continued to stare at him in shock. "It wasn't my idea, honest! It was that fuckin' President Goodman! He's a goddamn sicko!"

Cloud and Vincent exchanged glances. Finally, Cloud said, "Let's get you out of here." He reached for the keys hanging on the wall next to him. Red grabbed his hand before he could.

"Not without _that_ first." He nodded toward the all-sacred antique revolver.

"Of course," Vincent said, and offered it to Green.

"Dammit, Vinnie! Don't!" Cid shouted. "That's _yours_! I bought it for _you_! They have no right to take it!"

"Of course they don't," Vincent agreed, although he continued to hold the gun out to Green. Green glanced from Cid to Red to Vincent to Roland's gun, and slowly stretched a hand out to take it.

Vincent drew Cerberus with his other hand and shot Green promptly. Blood created a red circle in the middle of his green forehead, and spilled down between his eyes onto his nose. Christmas came early this year.

He fell with a heavy thump on the floor. Cloud took the hint, drew his own gun with his free hand, and shot three times at Red. Only one of those three bullets made it; guns had never been Cloud's thing. That one bullet grazed the big man's shoulder. Growling, he lashed out at Cloud, and was shot in the back of his own head. He fell on top of Cloud, who then threw the body to the floor. Doug stood before him, gun smoking, grinning uneasily. Clumsy oaf, but a fine marksmen indeed. He turned to Cid.

"Real nice upgrade. Smooth firing and very little recoil. Thanks."

"No problem."

Cloud grabbed the ring of keys as he intended and fumbled with the lock on Cid's prison cell door. Once he tried them all, he tossed the ring on top of Red's bleeding head. "None of these work."

"Let me try." Barret pushed him out of the way. Unlike the others, he had no need to carry guns with him. He had one build in. And now he pointed it at the lock. Cid stepped as far back and out of the way as he could. Barret fired. The bullet pierced not only the lock as intended, but also the wall on the far edge of the small cell. When he tried it, the door slid open easily.

Cid nodded his approval as he walked out into freedom. "Not bad shooting, men. Although you could do better." He caught Vincent's eye. "_Especially_ you. I expect a lot better from you in the future."

"As you very well should," Vincent agreed. "Shall we be going?"

"Going we shall be," Cloud answered. He and Barret led the way back to the elevator, all the while prisoners along the way complimented them on their performance, begged to be let out, too, and hooted as Cid walked by. Cid ignored them the best he could, walking toward the elevator as fast as he could, but when he got there, Vincent refused to let him board.

"What's the big deal, Vinnie?" he demanded to know, trying to edge his way past him. "I'm cold and naked and wanna go home! Why you stoppin' me?" _Don't you love me anymore?_ he almost added. He was glad he didn't.

Vincent held both his guns out to either side. "You said you wanted to see better shooting from me. You're about to see it." Cid got shoved aside then, but he didn't care. He watched Vincent Valentine run down the long corridor of prison cells and blow off the locks of each one as he passed. That was good enough to make up for the shoving. He moved so quickly and fired in such rapid succession, his body became a red blur and you'd think he was holding machine guns in both hands. Not to mention a never-ending supply of ammunition.

The prisoners stood aghast in their cells until this was over, and then every door creaked open, as though pulled by the hands of a thousand friendly ghosts. The room erupted in cheers. Vincent made his way back to the elevator.

"Going we shall be," he said to his men, and boarded.

Cid cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted to the roomful of free men: "Hail Don Vincenzo!"

"Hail Don Vincenzo!" they repeated in perfect unison, and again, laughing, "Hail Don Vincenzo!" The rest of the group joined Vincent and fled that joint.

5

Getting out wasn't as easy as getting in. Many lives were spared as well as taken, gallons of blood were shed. But there were seven of them, and six of them had guns and more than enough magazines to last them through the night, continuous shootout or not. Of those six with guns, one had two, and another had a formidable Buster Sword for backup. The seventh man was huddled in the midst of the other six, as he was naked, vulnerable, and unarmed.

All seven of them made it out of the building alive, but the action didn't stop once they got onto the street. This time, however, they had reinforcements. Remember those troops The Don told to wait outside? They were smart people. Knew how to locate where a shootout was taking place. And so all of Cosa Nostra (save for Tifa and Yuffie, who kept watch on the base) gathered at the Umbra Company on 12 Appleseed Drive. When their leader emerged, followed by a herd of security guards, the troops took hold of the reins, leaving the main party to return Cid to the base, where some fresh clothes, some cold beer, and his wife awaited him.

6

Cid showered, put on some clean clothes, and eased Shera's worries. He sent her home to wait for him as he finished things up at the base, although what he had to finish (other than the abandoned airship with the screwy radiator, which he would work on tomorrow), neither he nor she really knew for sure.

He sat on the balcony outside Vincent's office, sipping his beer and staring at the stars, wondering how a gun could be so valuable it very near cost him his life. He was joined by Vincent soon after setting his own bum down there.

"Tell me somethin', Vinnie," he said, not looking at him until they were sitting side-by-side. "What _really_ kept you from handing that antique gun over? I know it wasn't me. You were too zoned out at that point to be thinking of me. What's so special about that damn hunk o' metal'n wood?"

"You're wrong," Vincent replied. "I _was_ thinking of you. You gave it to me. Saved your money so you could buy it for me. Lost your dignity to give me a chance of keeping it. After all that, it would be a shame to give it up, don't you think?"

Cid gazed into his cup. "Well, yeah, but—"

"It's as much mine as it is yours," Vincent interrupted. "You know that, don't you? It's our thing."

Cid smiled at that. What a funny way to word the secret he tried to deny for so long. It had nothing to do with the gun. Absolutely nothing. Or maybe it did. Yeah, it had _something_ to do with the gun. But that was only a physical metaphor. The real thing... It was theirs.

That night it was not his wife he slept with.

**END/Cosa Nostra**

**End notes:** Okay, this is the important time to review, now that the story's over. How was it overall? Did I do the FFVII characters justice or do they need tweaking? Did you like my own characters? Would you like a sequel of some sort? Is my writing style annoying or fabulous? Go on! Be honest! I like honest people!


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